dynamos who manage to sit on half a dozen boards of arts, culture and community service organizations. How anyone in Toronto gets along without her is beyond me. 'But a situation like this,' she said, 'you pay your respects. If you were more connected to the Jewish community, you'd understand.'
And there it is, ladies and gentlemen. The first shot across my bow.
'I don't know that much about her situation, Ma.'
'Daniel didn't tell you?'
'I didn't speak to him.'
'But he referred her to you.'
'Not directly. His assistant set it up.'
'And you didn't call to thank him?'
Shot number two.
'I was going to, Ma. Right after I meet Marilyn.'
'Jonah,' she said. 'Honey.'
Oh, God. Not the 'honey.'
'You have one brother.'
'So does he.'
'Which means?'
'Which means he could have called me himself, instead of having Sandra do it.'
'So take the high road. Call and thank him. It's not as if your business is booming.'
'Ma-'
'Is it?'
'I wouldn't say booming but we're doing all right.'
'Are you, dear? Really?'
'Yes, Ma.' Stretching the definition of all right, perhaps, but this was my mother. Telling her how close to the bone we were would only send her to that place we've been too many times before: unwanted career advice, which ranked right up there with matchmaking.
'I wish I knew what it was with you two.'
What it was-what it had always been-was that Daniel was more successful. A lawyer, and a highly esteemed one at that, senior partner in the firm of Geller, Winston, Lacroix. Married with two adorable boys. A shul-goer, on the board of Young Israel congregation, and a contributor to charity. All the things a mother hopes for or, in the case of a Jewish mother, demands. All the things I wasn't and felt I'd never be.
'I'll call him the minute Marilyn leaves,' I said. 'Before the door swings shut.'
'Just be good to her,' she said. 'Do right by her. Her youngest child killing herself… she's had such a terrible time.'
'Her husband hasn't?'
'Her ex-husband,' my mother said. 'And him, you never know what he's feeling. Half the time I was there, he was taking phone calls. During shiva!'
'Listen, Ma, I think that's her at the door,' I said. And no lightning bolt struck me down.
'At least it's just a family matter,' she said. 'This business you're in, I worry so much about what could happen to you.'
'I know, Ma.'
'No, dear. If you knew-if you really knew-you'd get into something safer.'
'That's definitely her at the door,' I said.
'You'll call Daniel?'
'Yes.'
'And you'll be careful?'
'Like you said, Ma, it's a family matter. How dangerous could it get?'
CHAPTER 3
Marilyn Cantor's knock, when it came, was barely audible. Two soft taps, a pause, then a third tap. I wouldn't have heard it had I not been in the front reception area.
I opened the door and saw a woman of about fifty, dressed casually, comfortably and expensively in jeans and a maroon suede jacket. Five-four, slim, with auburn hair and blue eyes. Deep indigo smudges under her eyes, as dark as if she had recently broken her nose. But I knew from what my mother had told me that she'd endured far worse.
I introduced myself and Jenn and got Marilyn seated in one of our guest chairs. She declined coffee but when Jenn offered to make tea, she gratefully accepted. 'Something decaffeinated or herbal, if you've got it,' she said. 'I'm having trouble sleeping.'
As if the dark pouches under her eyes hadn't told us that.
'I almost didn't make it,' she said. 'Here, I mean.' She was having trouble making eye contact. Looking around the office, out the window, at the mismatched file cabinets and desks we'd bought at a school board auction. 'I spent all morning wondering why I made the appointment. What I hope to accomplish by it. Whether there's anything to be gained.'
'Is that why you called to confirm?' I asked. 'Most people don't bother.'
'Yes,' she said. 'I think you're right. I needed to push myself out the door. I needed someone to be expecting me.'
The kettle came to a boil and Jenn placed a mug in front of her, a bag of decaf English breakfast bobbing on the surface.
'Tell us about your daughter,' I said. 'And what you think we can do to help.'
It didn't take any more than that to make her eyes well up. I pushed a box of tissues toward her from my side of the desk. The tears she could wipe away; the dark pouches seemed there to stay.
'Her name was Maya,' she began. 'She was the youngest of two. Our baby. She would have been twenty-two next month. She was studying theatre arts at York-she'd wanted to be an actress since she was a little girl. And she was beautiful and sweet… our gift from God.' Her arms went around her body, hugging herself, trying to provide comfort where none was to be had.
'Do either of you have children?' she asked.
I said no. Jenn shook her head.
'I'm not sure you can understand how this hurts,' she said. 'Not just that she's gone. But how she died. Why she did what she did. Why I-oh, God-why I didn't know. If she was hurting so badly, if she was so depressed, why didn't I sense it? Why didn't she tell me? Reach out to me? We were close. We'd always been close. More so than Andrew-that's our oldest. He keeps everything inside. If it had been Andrew, God forbid, I think I might have understood. But Maya… I keep asking myself, was I so wrapped up in my own life? Was I not approachable in some way? Divorce affects the entire family, we all know that, and it certainly laid me pretty low the first year. Especially when Rob took up with his girlfriend. But Maya is-was outgoing. Upbeat. She seemed to enjoy her life, her friends, her courses. She was cast in two productions last year and even directed a one-act that was-I'm sorry, I'm rambling here.'
'You're doing fine,' Jenn said.
'The hardest part was shiva,' she said.
Jenn glanced at me. 'A week of mourning,' I explained.
'It's supposed to be a time of consolation,' Marilyn said softly. 'A time when friends and family hold you up until you can get back on your feet. To me, it felt more like an inquisition. I felt everybody's eyes on me, as if they were asking themselves what I had done wrong. As if I had failed my daughter and everyone in the room knew it. Every day, until it was over, I thanked God that we cover mirrors during shiva because I couldn't stand to look at myself,' she said. 'I live alone now, and except for the one in my bathroom, they're all still draped in black cloth.'
She used another tissue to wipe her eyes. The office was silent, except for the hum of computers and the
